The Adventure of the Three Geniuses
by alyxpoe
Summary: Whereby Monk. House and Sherlock Holmes solve a case (eventually)


**The Adventure of the Three Geniuses**

**_Whereby Gregory House, Adrian Monk and Sherlock Holmes Solve A Case (eventually)_**

**{Honestly, I have NO excuse other than I was having a bad day and needed some humor in my life. I am a big fan of all three of these shows. All different twists on the same theme, really-and I _had_ to know what it would be like if we got them together. There's some language and sexy talk here; also talk of crimes. Please enjoy!}  
**

The conference room in the five-star Hotel in an undisclosed very big city is garishly bright, lit up by fluorescents in the ceiling that make a barely imperceptible hum. Three men have pushed their chairs away from the large oval-shaped table and are standing staring down at the pile of files, photographs, and evidence quite literally spread all over the table. Some of the mess has even made its way into a few of the empty chairs. There's a desktop computer whose monitor has been shoved to the side to make way for more files and two laptops. An odd assortment of cell phones, including a hideously pink one somehow rest in between papers and a stack of old receipts. A stack of books, including a very old copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ are at the far end of the table.

Four of the remaining chairs are occupied by two women and two men. The women have turned towards each other and are conferring quietly. The one with the dark hair and brown eyes is wearing a lab coat and the blondish-brown haired woman wears comfortable, everyday street clothes and a pair of really nice calf-length boots. She seems to punctuate each of her sentences with her hands. The other woman pays close attention to her and nods in the correct places. Though it can't be seen from across the room, they are still keeping their eyes on the three men at the table, pretty much keeping themselves in _babysitting_ mode even while they have a conversation.

Another man sits to the right of the women, staring down at the phone is his long surgeon's fingers. He's blonde, blue-eyed and is also wearing a lab coat. He's a little tired from the party and threesome he had last night and really confused as to why he's even here at all. To the left of the women sits a man a bit older than the three of them holding a steaming mug in his hands. The mug is white and bears the crest of the Hotel whose conference room they have all found themselves in. (Since I'm the narrator, I can only tell you that I can't give you the name of the Hotel: Product placement and all that, right?) Anyway, he's also a blonde man whose hair was much lighter when he was younger. He appears to be studying the three men who are studying the piles of files, photographs and evidence. Our be-mugged man looks quite at home in his military-style hiking boots and oatmeal-colored sweater (only he calls is a _jumper_.)

There is a two-carafe coffee maker on a counter against the back wall of the conference room. One of the pots is filled with a strong, rich blend of the finest Colombian and it's brother stands proudly beside it full of nothing but hot water. A purple and blue box of teabags stands open next to the shiny chrome machine. A sugar bowl filled with _real sugar; please not that fake rubbish_ seems to have become the parking space for a rather expensive silver spoon. A few tiny white crystals mark an almost-invisible trail across the counter top to end up underneath a bowl of non-dairy creamer and a pint of real full-dairy cow's milk. Someone has managed to find some blueberry scones and they sit on a serving platter next to an assortment of donuts and other pastries.

The conference room seems to be a calm place where intellectuals such as our three stars can unwind and _think_. And hopefully solve this great big bastard of an international case.

Well it is now. But twenty minutes ago? Absolutely not.

Twenty minutes ago there had been a _very big_ uproar when the three men now seen to be pouring over the files, photographs and evidence quite studiously discovered that they had all been _locked in_ to the conference room. Yep. From the outside with a padlock and chains and everything they are completely imprisoned together. Unless they go through the big windows, of course; naturally being geniuses they have already considered that option. One of them has a serious fear of heights for personal reasons, one of them has a bum leg from a motorcycle accident and the other one promised his, um, _sidekick_, that upon his return to the realm of the living after a three year absence that he would not be doing any type of diving off of high buildings _ever again_ (well, intentionally anyway.)

So it is that these seven people have been locked into a rather large, quite comfortable conference room in one of the top floors of a very comfortable and quite large five-star Hotel (in an otherwise undisclosed city blah blah.) Fine. They have been accorded every comfort, including food and drink, gender-specific restrooms and pretty cushy chairs with which to cradle their genius bottoms in. They have been locked into this room by not only several policemen, two volunteer firemen, a couple of homicide detectives (one of them with a rather large bushy mustache, but that's a story for another day), an Oncologist, two D.I.s fresh from London, a member of the local precinct's bomb squad and a rather strange man carrying an umbrella over his arm and claiming to be a member of a very small department of the British Government.

To say it was a fiasco when these three men found out that they would be working_ together_ is putting it lightly. Any single one of them working alone would have been enough (at least for said individual) as only one of them admitted in any regular fashion that he actually _needed_ a team to bounce ideas off of; that would have been a bit alright. But telling these three massive egos (maybe one of them not so much, he'll have a talk with his therapist later) that they are going to have to _work together_?

With absolutely NO ceremony whatsoever, our three geniuses and their _sidekicks_ (for want of a better word, because two are _team members_, one's a LPN and the other one yet another medical man and persistent blogger) have been pushed, pulled, cajoled and _warned with bodily harm_ that they will go into this room and _not come out_ until they have solved the case.

For a moment, the entire Milky Way galaxy breathed a little easier.

Apollo played a jaunty little tune on his harp.

Three intense gazes met over the tabletop. Three men measured each other, _observed_ and knew every freaking thing there was to know about each other in a matter of seconds. Each man knew the others' strengths….and by default, their _weaknesses_.

Angels up in heaven actually started weeping the second the tumblers inside the massive for-tiger-cages-at-the-zoo padlock clicked into place.

All the birds in the Tri-State area stopped singing.

Bunnies ran into their holes; babies stopped crying and looked at the sky.

The aliens hovering about the Earth's orbit looked at each other's green faces and decided that today would be a really bad day to take over another planet.

Demons-well, you know where they are—danced with joy.

And then all hell broke loose.

**Chapter 2: Introductions**

Three very intelligent men are suddenly doing everything within their prospective powers to put all of the attention in the room on themselves. Their voices are raised in a cacophonous chorus, the shouting quite easily drowning out the engines of a jumbo jet that flies by at that very moment. If you were to listen closely (would anyone actually dare?) you might be tempted to make out individual words, but truly? For all the good that each of those men is capable of, each and every one of them can have a sharp tongue, even the quietest one among them: so really, that much venom in one place?

Let's back up just a little bit, shall we? Let's move away from this throng of cranial envy and go back to that peaceful time when the three geniuses have finally stopped their penis-measuring, posturing bullshit and have actually turned their collective attention to the international matter at hand. (Well, mostly.)

See this picture? Yes, that's it. Freeze that.

Alright, let us take a look at these gentleman and the women and men who love them; sort-of. Anyway…

Here on the left let us introduce retired-but-works-as-a-consultant-detective Adrian Monk. He is quietly shy, not as boisterous or flamboyant as the other two. He can be, if it's needed, but mostly he chooses to complete his tasks on the quiet end of the spectrum. Mr. Monk is smartly dressed in a brown suit jacket and neat trousers. (Yeah, I'm using the British vernacular here. I've gotten used to writing it that way and now "_pants_" actually sounds funny to me in any accent!) His black hair is neatly styled and his face is smooth. Monk is certainly more a thinker than a talker. Often he has trouble expressing himself, and the decency to get embarrassed about it.

Enter Sharona Fleming, originally hired to be his nurse, but now his friend and um, _Watson_. (You'll eventually get the reference, trust me.) She is often the buffer between Monk, his issues (and believe you me, the poor man has more issues than a magazine stand, but I digress), the local police force, and the world in general. Sharona is the lady sitting over there wearing those great boots. Give us a wave there, dear. See her? Good.

From Sharona's point of view in the conference room, it seems that Mr. Monk is rifling through a stack of files, possibly searching for information. Nothing could be farther from the truth, though it is possible for him to _observe_ and _classify_ information much quicker than the average human being. What is really doing, however, is trying to straighten the folders so that they are all turned the same direction. (We are all glad the poor man hangs out with cops and doesn't work as a cashier in any capacity. You may just have to trust me on this one.) Sharona is actually pretty chuffed that they are all locked in this room with official orders saying they can't leave or she would have already had to drive him home once or twice (who are we kidding? Probably three times) to make sure his pillows or umbrellas or soup cans or just anything is the way he left it earlier this morning. This is not to say that she doesn't _like_ Mr. Monk. He is her boss and he is a lovely person and he does so much good in the world; sometimes she just wants to throw up her hands and walk away from it all. But that never happens!

Moving on, hold on while I sip my drink.

That's better.

Let us skip the tall man in the center for a moment, shall we? We shall move on to the next quite well-dressed man in this unholy trinity of genius. Meet Sherlock Holmes, a man who refers to himself as the "world's _only_ consulting detective." (OCD.) (Did my joke fall flat? Tough crowd!)

(I just need to ask how many of you out there in fandom-land missed the part about what Adrian Monk does for a living? Ah! You caught that did you? Now you can see why almost half an hour ago the place was utter chaos.) (And why I'm drinking rum at ten o'clock in the morning.)

Anyway, Mr. Holmes looks rather fine (to both men and women) (sorry, won't happen again) in his black jacket and well-pressed trousers, which happen to be really tight. (I believe this is referred to in some circles as a _plush arse_.)

We can't see their feet from here, but let's take a peek under the table anyhow. Mr. Monk wears a nice solid pair of wingtips; good for working and look great with his chosen attire. Not so good for climbing up or down slippery slopes. (Which he doesn't do anyway, heights, remember? He's got a whole police force to help with that aspect of his job.) The pair of legs in the middle belonging to the gentleman we have not yet discussed are clad in an old pair of jeans, but what we are looking at now is the rather worn-out pair of Pumas or Converse or Vans or whatever. They are old and ratty looking, is the point. Mr. Holmes stands in a rather (big and) expensive pair of handmade leather shoes that would make the owner of this Hotel jealous. Sherlock's soles are so think that he can (and has) scaled fences, stone walls, and once even a window ledge like a six-foot tall Ninja. Or a mountain goat; how about a ninja..eh, nevermind. (Even with a police force to help him with that aspect of his job.)

Now back to our pretty, pretty picture.

Mr. Holmes has been caught in time reaching out towards the stack of files that Mr. Monk is attempting to straighten. He is showing us a rather glorious expanse of long pale wrist and fingers. Just under the cuff of his black jacket we can see the sleeve of that shirt that drives his partner wild. Since it's his left hand (and this is my fanfiction and I ship it) we can clearly _observe_ a well-done tattoo on the base of his ring finger. If we look even closer we'll be able to note that though it looks solid, it's actually made up of teeny tiny letters: mostly the scientific formulas for adrenaline, serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. It's a long story so let's hurry and shift our gaze towards the blonde man wearing the beige jumper.

This, ladies and gents, is Dr. John Watson. He seems to be slouching back into his chair as he calmly watches our genius trio with eyes that bring to mind teddy bears armed with machine guns. (And, yes, the tattoo around his own ring finger matches Sherlock's. Could it be any more obvious? )

Now let's shift our attention here to the man in the middle. This is Doctor Gregory House, the epitome of what would happen if a half mad (alright, totally bonkers) scientistic took DNA from the other two and tossed in the sex drive of a weasel. (And the smoky jazzy voice of a old blues singer.) And then put it all into a pot, boiled, then stirred it and dumped the whole mess into a test tube.

The first thing we notice is that Dr. House is certainly comfortable. He's wearing an old Stevie Ray Vaughn (seriously, if you don't know who that is, are you old enough to be reading this?) T-shirt that is mere days away from entering the _moth eaten_ category. His old jeans are kind of baggy and if you turn the camera here, you can see that one of the back pockets is missing. He is anything but clean shaven, in fact the term _five o'clock_ shadow is probably pushing it. House's hair doesn't look like it's seen a comb or a brush or any type of styling product in, oh, maybe ten years?

Dr. House stands between the other two (in age as well) with hand resting on the handle of a cane and the other hand gripping the edge of the table. The man looks as if he hasn't slept in a week.

Sherlock's already called him out on the addiction and resultant trip to rehab, and if House hasn't figured out yet that Sherlock really can't open his big yap about that subject, though being an intelligent _diagnostician_ himself, he eventually will.

The two people that House has literally dragged here to this meeting or whatever the hell it is by the scruffs of their lab coats from the fine hospital where he is currently (mostly) employed are Dr. Chase (blonde Australian surgeon who was supposed to get all the women that Dr. House seems to be surrounded by. Big surprise that the older man gets more fanmail than cutey-pie, too, huh?) and another doctor that House refuses to call by any name other than Thirteen. (Dr. House wants everyone to know that he has an entire team of doctors but he had to leave someone at the hospital to actually, you know, take care of patients.) (This is something else that came out in the unholy trio's very loud and very obnoxious argument from a little while ago.) These two doctors have been known to have the unique ability to cut through House brand Bullshit and actually work _with _the man, rather than_ for_ him in any capacity. Thirteen thinks she actually even _likes_ him. A little.)

Got it all down? Superb. Let's push the magic button on this remote control and start right back where we left off.

**Chapter 3: Indignation**

So, now that you have met these three gentleman and their _sidekicks_, would you believe that it all started rather _quietly_?

The door clicked shut. Fourteen ears registered the snick of the tiger-proof padlock and the thump-slink sound of the heavy chain against the wood. Our quartet of _sidekicks_ looked around at one another and accepted the situation (as they always do.) They milled about the room for a time, getting their bearings with at least one of them (John) easily checking corners for anything untoward. Well, that's to say they all milled about a bit except for Dr. Chase. He immediately dropped his rather nice hind end into a chair and planned to pretty much stay there and be a zombie for the entire thing. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and stared at the others blearily, seriously considering curling up in one of the corners that Dr. Watson had already surmised was safe.

Sharona and Thirteen make a bee-line for the coffee pot, grab some mugs and then move towards a couple of chairs in unison. (If Dr. House saw this he would have some snarky remark about females of his species, but for now his attention is currently elsewhere. Good thing, too, because these two women? They could take him down and then come back and ask for seconds. All they would have to do is open their mouths.) They begin to chit chat a little and it isn't long before they are happily comparing notes on their respective geniuses/work-husbands.

Dr. Watson confidently introduces himself to the others, being a proper English gentleman and all. He shakes hands with the woman and with Dr. Chase. One look at Dr. Chase (Dr. Watson is married, not _dead_. (Even though no one in the room outshines Sherlock, in his eyes at least.)) (Where was I?) Anyway, one look at Dr. Chase and Dr. Watson knows within a tiny fraction of a percentage _exactly_ what the younger man was up to last night (actually right up until about an hour and a helicopter-ride ago.) John thinks to himself with a chuckle that Sherlock is rubbing off on him (and tries really hard to surpress his inner glee as such a wonderful innuendo.) He seriously contemplates whether it would be a good idea to inform Dr. Chase that one of his lovers from last night is a transvestite. Merely smiling at the surgeon (for his own inner innuendo and also the secret he's just picked up, knowing his husband would be so proud), he goes to the side board to make himself a cuppa and then finds a seat of his own. (For the show about to start...)

And start it does.

Dr. House, Mr. Monk, and Mr. Holmes do not even attempt to shake hands. Rather they all stand around the table looking anywhere but at _each other_. The whole damn thing is actually kind of funny in a surreal, oh-my-god-the-earth-is-gonna-end way. I think.

Sherlock notes that his dear Doctor appears to be chatting up the ladies and then quickly reminds himself that John _is _a _people person_. He lets it go. Mr. Monk quietly ignores everyone else in the room, desperately trying to remember if he left an even number of squares in the Chex cereal box. Dr. House leans against his cane and the table and thinks about asking the Brit in the black jacket for a cigarette just so he can say the word _fag_. It's pretty obvious that Sherlock hasn't smoked in quite some time, but House knows well the signs of someone needing a release. (We won't tell him that he's guessed wrong about what kind.) He hopes one of them gets interesting soon because all this cloak-and-dagger shit is just _dull_.

So they find themselves absolutely _not_ looking at each other but at a stack of files and photographs. Monk leans down and grabs a stack of brown folders and pulls them towards himself as he sits down. He crosses his legs neatly and begins to thumb through the files. House leans against the table and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. He picks up a stack of photographs and casually flips through them. Sherlock pulls an ugly pink cell phone (_mobile_) out of his neat trousers and clicks it on with one hand as he shifts through a coroner's report with the other. The report is almost twenty pages thick and it doesn't take him long to have a mental picture of this victim. Attached to the back of the report is an 8x12 yellow envelope. He runs one longer finger in between the flap and the envelope and pulls it open, sliding out several large prints of a rather gory crime scene.

House sneaks a little peek over the photos in his hand and decides that the ones Sherlock has are _much more interesting_. He sets the stack down on the table and leans forward a little, looking at the crime scene photos upside down. Sherlock continues to lay out the pictures across the table, flipping the places of one or two of them, so that they are roughly in chronological order. House emphatically _does not_ look at Sherlock, but just happens to notice that the consulting detective seems to be completely wrapped up in a world of his own. The whole strange tableau is a study in, well, strange for a moment.

"Sharona! Wipe!" Monk calls as he drops the entire stack of files back on the table. The stack wiggles for a bit and a few of them slide towards the crime scene photos. Sharona has snapped right up to Monk's side and is handing him a little wet towelette. Monk is complaining to her that for as fresh as this case is, they sure have enough dust on the files to last him a lifetime. Sharona rolls her eyes, turns her head towards her new friend and grins (you know, the secretive-female-see-what-I-mean-grin.)

House is quite literally chewing on his tongue.

Sherlock is still in his own little world, alright his _mind palace_ and is paying no attention to either of them. (Of course, if he would have chosen _that_ precise moment to look up, he could have pulled a rather impressive _Raistlin Majere _and stopped House's bullying tactics right then and there. But he didn't.) (Oh yeah, sorry if that reference is too obscure.)

House's eyes have lit up with some inner hellish-prankster fire.

Adrian is cleaning off each one of his fingers with a look of pure horror on his face. He is meticulous in everything, even this.

House stops chewing on his tongue and leans against the table.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room falls a few hundred degrees. Dr. Chase's and Dr. Watson's eyes snap open out of the totally different sex fantasies they are having, their heads whip towards the three geniuses, each one of them hoping it isn't his respective genius whose about ready to _start something a bit not good_. The conversation between Sharona and Thirteen becomes icicles between them. The icicles hit the floor and shatter into a billion pieces. Every person in the room (except Sherlock) watches as House leans a little bit forward and reaches across the table. He grabs Monk's little wipe between his index and middle finger, holding it up like he just captured the flag.

House smiles.

(Remember those demons from earlier? Yeah. Now they are all yelling "PAR-TAY IN THE HOUSE (or conference room) BOYZ! Whoop whoop!")

Adrian simply stands there for a moment. He's not stupid. He knows when he's being goaded. But, there is a case. Something else to think about….other than things he doesn't want to think about. Or remember. He is the bigger man, mostly. He _can_ just let this go. It's not like no one's ever _teased_ him before. Then he looks House straight in the face. This is not _teasing_. It is a test.

He opens his mouth. Sharona is already digging another little square packet out of her purse. Adrian holds up one hand to stop her. She is torn. She sits back down. Well, this is certainly going to be interesting.

"What's wrong, do you need a dye-pee, too? Mommeee, I need a dye-pee!" House sings at the top of his lungs. He's laughing and flicking the little wet square in the air.

"I have a good-looking woman to cater to my needs. What's your excuse? Looks like you haven't bathed in a month." Sharona's mouth opens in a big "O." Did _Monk_ just say that? Thirteen hides her smile behind her hand. It's true, no one ever stands up to House. Dr. Chase snickers out loud and turns back to his phone. (He's waiting on the non-tranny lover from last night to send him her phone number.) John Watson's eyes snap from Mr. Monk to Dr. House and then to Sherlock, who still seems completely immersed in his part of the project. He hopes that this will be one of those times when Sherlock totally forgets about the rest of humanity. With any luck, House will back down and knuckle down and perhaps they can all be out of here before next Christmas.

In that instant, all the planets align.

Bones complains to Jim that he's a doctor, dammit, not a sex-therapist.

A three-eyed fish breaks the surface of a river in California, a trio of eyelids blinking at the camera.

Sherlock Holmes looks up from crime scene photos, which he hates using-preferring to actually be at the scene, irritated that he's been interrupted. Almond-shaped green eyes flash as the entire situation unfolds. Fifteen different scenarios present themselves. He has the ability to put a stop to this right then and there. Sherlock doesn't like bullies, however. Nosir. .all.

"Really, Dr. House? Are you so small in the bollocks department that you pick on someone so defenseless? Are you so far out of your league that you must turn to childish amusements?"

House sets his icy blue glare onto Sherlock. If it were at all possible, there would be bright red dot of a sniper target dead center of Sherlock's forehead. Adrian sees his chance and snatches his wipe away from House. He turns towards Sharona, his trophy held high. Sharona does a facepalm and shakes her head from side to side. Thirteen…well, Thirteen has seen this kind of thing way too many times in her association with House. She can't even watch…much.

Dr. Chase rolls his eyes to the ceiling but prepares to move if the situation calls for it. He won't be House's back up but he's not going to let this get nasty. Not with this raging headache.

John sighs and finishes his cup of tea. He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater (_jumper_) and unbuttons the cuffs on his button-down, then pushes those up, too. He's afraid he's going to have to pull the two idiot geniuses apart if this gets too out of control. Sherlock's got that predatory I-hate-Anderson look on his face.

Without missing a beat, House gives Sherlock an open up-down assessment with a flick of his eyes. "Eating disorder, an oral fixation and an ego that certainly doesn't match the size of your dick. Would you like a _fag_ mister Holmes?"

Sherlock's nostrils flare. His entire body goes completely still. "At least I've never tried to _kill_ a former lover."

House's mouth starts to drop open. There's _no way_ that anyone outside of the Hospital knows about that, especially some skinny British know-it-all. "That's probably because you've only ever had ONE."

"Most of us don't need to go out and _spread it all around_ House." Sherlock retorts through clenched teeth.

"That's enough gentleman, we have a _case…_" Adrian's attempt at harmony is at best much too late, at worst, pointless. He grabs several files and plants himself in a chair. Maybe he can set an example…

Yeah right.

Sherlock is absolutely leaning into House's personal space at this point. His eyes are narrowed and he's giving the other man his absolutely most charming _fake smile_. "Are you going to help us out here, _Gregory_, or do I need to draw you some pictures?"

"As you insist, Mister Holmes, maybe I'll even let you sign them for me? Or does your _lap dog_ do more than just announce to the world how great-and-wonderful you are?"

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

"You leave _my _John out of this, ignorant Yank."

.Did.

"British fucker. You can't tell me what to do, we split from the Empire two hundred years dontcha run along and play house with your _sidekick _because apparently you need some more training."

"What _exactly _is your profession, _doctor_ House? Being the world's nastiest bastard? It's _obviously_ time for you to retire, _old dog_."

"Skinny asshole. This old dog could take you in half a round."

"Yes, as long as you've got that little bottle of pills in your pocket handy."

"Show me your track marks Mister Holmes and I'll show you a chunk of meat missing out of my thigh."

"I have no desire to see any part of you _uncovered._" Sherlock actually wrinkles his nose.

"Everyone _lies_ Mister Holmes." House snaps his favorite retort.

Sherlock and House are so close that they are breathing each other's carbon dioxide. Sherlock has both hands planted flat on the table and House actually has one knee up there, too. House's face is beginning to redden but Sherlock's as cool as a cucumber.

And…so on and so forth. It's getting nasty up in here. How are we going to get these boys to do what's right?

Mycroft Holmes turns from the security camera to face the room at large. Every single person there is staring at the monitor in disbelief. Mycroft isn't the least bit surprised. The game is on.

**Chapter 4: Inarticulation**

House is now almost completely on the top of the table on his hands and knees. One more inch and that's all it's going to take. Sherlock has not moved except to lean inward and raise his eyebrows.

"Come on you young punk, take a swing at me." House spits.

Now, let's stop here for a moment, if you will. We all know the story of how Sherlock had to fake his death several years ago and we all know what he spent that time _doing_. Prior to that time, Mr. Holmes has never been one to turn down a street fight. Sherlock's eyes narrow and the irises underneath the lids are flint and steel. In an instant, he's measuring the distance to House's collar bones and neck vertebrae. One hit. That's all it would take…

Adrian Monk has had enough. He stands up from his chair so fast that the dozen or so file folders in his lap hit the ground and papers go flying everywhere. The chair smacks against the (rather plush) carpet with a muffled bang! Dr. Watson, who 's in his gotta-get-to-Sherlock-before-someone-actually-dies position, takes one look at Mr. Monk and settles back down in his chair. Something about the older man reminds him strongly of a certain DI friend of his back home.

Adrian rapidly moves from his chair to the table top. (It's a pretty impressive action that will go down in the history books. Countless numbers of action heroes will attempt that move—and fail.) Within seconds he finds his trim little self completely between House and Sherlock. He holds one hand palm out towards the well-dressed detective who is smart enough to step around the table to join _his_ John. Adrian gets right into House's face and locks eyes with him.

For someone so intelligent, House (like our other boy geniuses here) can sometimes really be pretty damned dumb. He pretty much wrote off Adrian Monk the second the quiet man stepped through the door. That was a mistake. When Adrian turns his astronomically hard gaze into House's face, House feels two things simultaneously.

This is not a man to be fucked with, if he had a gun House would be in serious trouble. (How in the world did he ever forget that Monk was a cop?) (And-why is it always _cops_?)

Uh oh. (At least House has the wherewithal to you know, look surprised, and slightly cowed.)

With one index finger, Adrian pokes against House's shoulder as if to make a point. House backs down. Like, for real. He pushes himself backwards off of the table and if it hadn't been for Thirteen's quick thinking, he would have actually been on his ass on the floor. As it was the chair that she pushed underneath him made an absolutely ridiculous sound that any other time would have been hilarious. Adrian keeps his butt planted firmly on the table for another thirty seconds whilst (isn't that a great word?) staring down one of the biggest bullies he's ever met. (Seriously, that's saying something.)

The room is silent while the other six people look to Monk to give them some idea what's going on. He swings his legs a little bit considering that this is quite a turn. Without speaking, he holds up a hand and Sharona moves forward with a wipe. Adrian turns towards House and makes an absolute _spectacle_ of cleaning off that one index finger. (You know, the pokey one.) He clears his throat (twice) and straightens his jacket. He very carefully gets off of the table. Dr. Chase and Thirteen are picking up the files from the floor. John is giving Sherlock his patented secret-wait-till-we-get-home-you-need-a-spanking-b ut-you-didn't-hurt-him-so-maybe-I'll-go-easy-on-yo u-glare. Sherlock looks amused but not bothered. Of the three of them, Monk is the one that he would underestimate the _least_.

Monk rolls his shoulders a bit and clears his throat (again.) He only looks at Sharona but speaks to the room at large.

"Now that we have all decided whose penis is larger, can we get down to business?" He looks over to Sherlock who gives him a solemn-god-you-are-a-BAMF nod and moves back to the table. Immediately he gets right back to the crime scene photos that have been replaced by doctors Chase and Thirteen. Adrian levels a really-good-old-fashioned-cop-stare at House and he nods. House nods back. He pulls his chair up to the table and grabs a couple of files. In the next few minutes, House is going to stand over the table and say something intelligent, leaning on both hands. Sherlock's going to reach out for one of the files on Monk's end of the table whilst (J ) Monk attempts to straighten them up.

Now we are back where we started. Let's speed up time a little. Two hours ought to do it. Gets us right into the thick of things.

House is standing in front of the white-board writing down the facts of the case. (It's really not important to our story is it?)

(Oh. I guess narrators aren't supposed to whine then. Sorry.)

Fine: the case is pretty convoluted, but includes three kidnapped children, all the offspring of three different Ambassadors from three different countries around the world. Each of these children were kidnapped based on their _first names_—something that Dr. House is just about to discover.

. Now.

Now they are onto their first big clue. All the kid's names start with the letter Z. (John chuckles are remembers a dream he had about someone named Zaphod Beeblebox or something and thinks about how some parents just give their kids weird names for the hell of it. Of course, right at that moment, Sherlock catches his eye…)

Anyway, Sherlock and Adrian have found a kind of symbiosis and Sherlock turns his head back down in order to discuss some minor details. Sherlock whips out the hideously ugly terribly pink phone and is punching something into the search bar. He pulls up a weather map from the area near where their Hotel is located and shows it to Adrian. Monk of course won't _touch_ the phone, but he seems to be seriously interested in what's on it. He gives an affirmative shake of his head to Sherlock and the corners of Sherlock's mouth curl up just the tiniest bit.

He hands the stack of crime scene photos to Adrian and gets up from his chair. He begins to pace around the room with his long fingers twined in his hair (which is now reaching curly-cues of Einstienian proportions.) Adrian studies the photos and flips one of them upside down. He doesn't make a big deal out of his epiphanies, just calls Sharona over. Dr. Watson joins her and they listen as Adrian lays out his _deductions_ in almost a whisper. The woman in the bathtub of bloody water wasn't killed in order to give the perps _access_ to the kidnapped child (#1) : she was killed because she _knew_ what was happening and had a change of heart.

"That's pretty cold-blooded." John observes. Sharona nods her head.

House and his mini-team are huddled around the white-board. Usually at this point, House will send them out to do a bit of reconnaissance, but since they are all stuck here, he's got to think of a way to…

Oh!

"Mr. Monk!" Adrian joins him at the board. House is talking animatedly, his eyes bright from the sudden realization that "Z" refers to a certain illicit drug that's been making its way around. The perps don't want ransom _money…_

From the corner nearest the restrooms there is an even deeper-voiced and much louder "OH!"

Sherlock's on a roll. Everyone stops and listens. And they stare, too. John's the only one in the room who's really seen this up close and personal many times. Like, a whole lot.

"It's not _money_! Its _drugs_! There are seven perpetrators, well six now, considering that the woman in the bathtub was going to rat them all out. They killed her as a matter of course but also to set an example to any of the others." He grabs one of the photos off the table on his way past it. He holds it aloft . "See that little mark on her thigh?" No one moves, but they do take his word for it. It's the same one Monk pointed out earlier. Sherlock continues. "It's a tiny little 'z'. They must have cut it into her thigh when she started working with…no, for them. There's more though, more…" He moves about the room. He thinks about John. "The children are…where?" His jaw shuts with a snap. The hands are back in the hair and the pacing resumes. They can all see that he's got it...right there.

Wait for it.

"Sherlock." John says quietly.

Sherlock continues to pace.

"Sherlock." John tries to get his attention by pointing the word _Zurich_ on the white-board. Naturally, it doesn't work.

"Oh!" Sherlock finally turns towards John and notes the pointy finger leading the way to _Zurich._ They speak at the same time:"Zurich Gardens, down in [the city where this fine Hotel is]."

"Yes!" Sherlock beams at John with pride. "In a car in Section Z, Row Z of the parking lot, find them. Hurry, Mycroft." Sherlock looks directly into the eye of the "hidden" security camera that he found within two minutes of entering the room. Everyone turns in the same direction but only John and Adrian can see the tiny little lens next to the orange power light on the coffee pot. It's all very entertaining.

Mycroft turns back to the room at large. It's his turn to point. He picks several people out of the room and gives them orders to head towards the local amusement park. (For his credit, he is not surprised in the least that his brother found his hidden camera—he always does.)

"Good, that's good." Monk says as he shifts heavily into a chair. "Now we need to find the perps…"

Let's give them a little time to stew and have a cup of coffee. John's got to try and get something into Sherlock (food-wise, sillies!) and House needs to use the restroom. We will be back after these messages from our sponsors!

**Chapter 5: Invocation**

Hello! It's great to have you back!

Everyone has settled back into the room at large. House and the other two doctors back to the white board, Monk to the table. He now has a miniature Tower of Pisa built out of little foil-wrapped squares next to him. Sharona just decided to make her own life easier so she could stop jumping up. She has taken to travelling around the room listening to each detective and playing a little game with herself to see if she can see the pieces fall into place the same way they do.

It's not working, but it is _something to do_. And of course, she's drank _entirely_ too much coffee so she is a little jittery. Moving is keeping that feeling at bay. She worries about her son just a little, too. Finally she gives up and moves toward Monk, pulling out the chair next to him. He takes her presence in stride and starts rattling off his ideas, shoving a legal pad and a pen in her hands that she quickly starts to scribble on.

John and Sherlock are in the corner back by the coffee pot. They are having a silent little argument about Sherlock and his empty stomach. John is holding out a mug of nice warm tea and Sherlock is steadfastly ignoring it, instead staring at John's mouth. John wants absolutely no part of this game (and he's completely unaware that he keeps licking his lips—perhaps he's not, though, maybe it's spite) at least not here in a roomful of people. They are certainly having a great ole eye fuck back there.

House has noticed. (Who hasn't, right?)

He noticed when he came out of the restroom.

He notices it now when he's dictating what Dr. Chase and Thirteen are to write on the white board. He's got an idea in his head that one of the perps is a bleeder due to a strange stain on one of the car seats. (They've progressed far enough to a report about a certain make and model car that was seen at the scene (I had to write it that way, it's funny) at the amusement park. It's the newest intel from Mycroft's team and House actually thinks if they can follow the stain they can follow the perp's movements.

But the eye-fucking in the corner is giving him a headache….and making him have really strange thoughts about a certain Oncologist best friend…which are quite _distracting_, to say the least. He's never had them before….

He's got to _do_ something.

"Sherlock just drink the goddamn tea." He growls to the room at large. Strangely, he then goes right back to what he's doing.

Over in the corner, Sherlock reaches out for the mug in John's hands without looking at him. John takes a step backwards and Sherlock's hand come s up empty. John's little ruse works and gets Sherlock's attention back on him. Sherlock gives him his patented I-am-not-amused glare but takes the tea and drinks it anyway, not-quite slamming the empty mug on the counter. Victorious!John reaches out to the silver platter and grasps a rather scrumptious-looking cinnamon roll, breaking their eye contact. Sherlock takes it as permission and heads back to the table.

John watches him doing a very good impression of Sherlock-on-the-hunt. He narrows his oh so very blue eyes and stalks up behind the man where he sits, his face all but plastered to the crime scene photos. Sherlock pulls the keyboard towards himself and starts tap-tap-tapping away, once more completely oblivious of everyone in the room. (In reality, he's got his own ideas about all the stuff House's _team_ have written on the white-board. It shouldn't take him a few minutes to hack into the local hospitals' records.)

In between all of this, Monk is pouring over the information, trying to find the second perp. It's possible the third one has been killed but there is no way to be sure until they get this thing cracked wide open. He closes his eyes and sits back in his chair. Sharona stops writing.

Once again there is a strange alignment in the galaxy.

A weird guy named Q starts a mind-numbing game with a certain French starship captain.

I really can't come up with anything else right now, so let's just say the entire planet stood still for forty seconds or so.

Monk jumps up from his seat and a very small, very quiet "oh" escapes his lips. He is so excited that he can't even talk. He just points at Sharona and for a bit she's a little stunned. She quickly scans her notes and then reads them aloud.

(And because I'm lazy, I'm going to spare you the whole tangled up thing. Let's assume we are all as smart as this particular genius and we understood all of this-which hinges on a tiny pearl-like button off of the perp's shirt.)

Everyone in the room looks at Monk. He beams back at them.

Behind the eye, Mycroft barks out orders at another team. They race out of the room.

He rolls his head to relax his stiff neck and listens intently to the voice talking to him on the Bluetooth set in his ear. Monk was absolutely correct about the third perp—he's just been fished out of the river. A small "z" carved into his thigh.

Two down, one to go. Mycroft sends a text message to his brother's phone.

Sherlock's phone chimes, pulling his attention away from the computer monitor. There's a great sucking sound as the universe bends in twain when Sherlock shifts his full attention from one electronic object to another.

Two things happen at exactly the same time. He flicks the screen with his index finger and suddenly finds his mouth full of a very soft and very sweet piece of cinnamon roll. The taste and texture of it just barely register. He chews thoughtfully (he _can be_ polite and he prefers not to wear ABC cinnamon roll all over his nice blazer.) (That means Already Been Chewed.) John stands behind him wearing an expression very similar to Monk's.

Sherlock swallows and holds the phone out to John, simultaneously grabbing the rest of the roll out of John's hand. John reads the text to everyone and Monk beams. Again. Even House cracks a smile at him. It's down to the wire, they've got to find the third perp.

Amongst themselves, they've taken to calling him "Zorro." Everyone in the room gets a macabre little chuckle out of it…well, except for Sherlock. He can't figure out why they are calling this nasty little piece of work the Spanish word for "fox." But whatever.

House plops himself down in one of the chairs and proceeds to bang his cane against the table. He's got one leg (the bad one) cocked at the knee with his foot resting against the side and the other one spread out perpendicular to the floor. At this point in the game, he doesn't need to _talk_ he needs to _listen_. And he knows it.

Monk also goes quiet. Some things are not adding up. He needs to consider this problem from all angles. Sherlock sits in his seat and he, too, has gone completely still, except for the hands, which are steepled under his chin. He huffs a sigh at House and the cane-banging and finally he has to move. He swirls around the table, catching House's cane in his one hand as he goes by it. Suddenly its in the air like a baton, flipping over itself toward the ceiling to be caught on the down stroke by a very long, fine, hand. For once in his life, House keeps his mouth shut.

John watches his partner closely. The cane brings back memories he doesn't even want to consider right now, though he does consider telling Sherlock that this is one thing he _can't _fix, but he lets it go lest this fic gets entirely too serious.

Alright!

Sherlock's pacing, Dr. Chase is napping in the other corner (the non-tranny lover from last night still hasn't sent him her phone number and he's feeling a bit _pouty_), Thirteen has stepped up behind house and is inexplicably giving him a shoulder rub; Sharona and Monk sit side-by-side at the table. John moves to take the chair Sherlock has vacated.

Sherlock freezes, his eyes close, and his hands reach out to nothing. He keeps the cane in one hand, almost using to point at a screen only he can see. He opens his eyes and starts talking.

"The perp. It was his blood; I've followed the trail through the entire process. It has shown up everywhere. It's possible that…"

Then Monk takes up the thread. "…he was injured when the lady in the bathtub attempted to fight him off! Absolutely. He was a no-show with the first perp that's been apprehended."

Sherlock picks right up. "Yes. But his blood was on the body from the river."

Monk nods. Sherlock nods.  
Both of them look at House.

"But blood stains wash off in the water. So how, then…"

Monk and Sherlock in unison (it really is _very _exciting!): "It's been _frozen_!"

Sherlock is almost giddy. "He's trying to give us a red herring. Oh!" He stops again, his hair still moving with the wind of his, well, movement. A little curl over his forehead goes _boing boing boing_. John stifles a giggle.

Sherlock suddenly looks up and around the room. He runs to the door and starts pounding on it. "Mycroft, let me out of here! I've got him. I've got him!"

There's a loud _click-snick-thwap_ as the padlock in undone and the chain falls. A very large bouncer-type body-guard opens the door and Sherlock is through it before its completely open. He holds up the chain…

Low and behold there is a single red drop of dried blood against the silver.

Our geniuses three all look _at each other_. They are on even footing. No more screwing around. This has finally gotten serious. John catches on almost as fast. He slips easily into Captain mode.

Not one of them says it, but they are all thinking it. _He's here. Right here, all along._

"House, stay here and guard this door. Don't let anyone in or out." House has the grace to actually agree and leans against the door.

"Monk, you go down that hallway. You, you go with him." John points at big-body-guard type. The big man grunts and John hopes that's an affirmative. There's the sound of a door slamming somewhere out of sight.

"Sherlock, we'll take this one." He points to the left. Everyone hares in their respective directions but only Sherlock has figured out exactly where the perp is to be found.

Of course there's a big chase that ends up right in front of the room where Mycroft has sequestered everyone and is using as a control room. Of course Sherlock bangs on the door. Mycroft sees movement out of the corner of his eye and the man in the volunteer fire uniform is suddenly pinned to the floor by a grinning DI and a couple of the local police force. It's over.

Somehow everyone gathers in the lobby. Mycroft stands in the center of the room under a rather gaudy chandelier, looking like the cat that not only got the cream, but the mouse, too. Everyone is standing about talking in little groups. It's an amazing thing they just did and only the sidekicks seem to be sharing in it.

Sherlock is just outside the revolving doors, leaning against the brick wall having a cigarette. House is standing next to him doing the same thing.

Monk is standing next to Sharona in the lobby trying to look like he belongs there. OK, not really, he's had enough and wants to go home. They are the first to leave, Sharona making him make the rounds and be decent to the other sidekicks, excuse me, I mean other members of this strange little team. John shakes her hand fondly; he's already figured out Monk won't, so he doesn't offer. (It's more polite that way.) He graciously thanks Monk and invites him out to London sometime, as it seems that he and Sherlock got on well with each other. Better than he would have expected, at any rate.

Monk stops to think it over and asks if he would have to fly on an airplane.

John just looks at him with a little worry crease between his eyebrows. "Of course." He answers gently.

"Maybe someday." Monk admits and then they are out the door.

Dr. Chase has already left with his arm around one of the girls from the front desk.

Thirteen comes up to John and holds out a hand. "That was fun. We did it once, let's never do it again."

"Yes, ma'am." John smiles at her. "Let's hope we never have to."

Thirteen has one arm linked into House's. She has gone out the door and come directly back in, making him be gracious. (It is hard work.) She's smiling and he just looks tired. He doesn't even offer to shake hands, just nods his head. "Dr. Watson."

"Dr. House."

Out the door they go. Last but not least, John joins Sherlock out in front of the fancy Hotel in an undisclosed city in a year that could be just about anytime, but it's chilly so Sherlock can don his ultra-dramatic and heavy-as-biker-gear coat. He has just lit another bummed cigarette. John reaches up and pinches it away from Sherlock's mouth, replacing the cancer stick with his lips. It's brief and he pulls away, giving Sherlock the "Amazing, fantastic, god-you-are-wonderful" smile.

Sherlock's mouth quirks up at the corners and he raises a hand. A yellow taxi cab appears out of the ether and they slip into it effortlessly. They head towards the airport never once considering that DI Lestrade and Mycroft are jogging down the sidewalk trying to catch them. (Well, John doesn't notice but Sherlock's sure going to have a lot of fun raining hell down on the man who _dared_ to kidnap him, put him on a plane, and then have the audacity to lock him in a room for an _entire day_. At least the case was a 9.5. So there's that.)

_Fin_


End file.
